


In Which Jackson Plans to Sleep Through Christmas

by Mandibles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Christmas, Fluff and Angst, Jackson and Scott's relationship has some issues, M/M, Post-Season 2 angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 12:58:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>. . . until a stupidly romantic doof stops him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Jackson Plans to Sleep Through Christmas

When Jackson wakes Tuesday morning, all curled up on the ‘nice’ mattress Derek had tossed into one of the few rooms of the Hale house that still had four walls, he’s content to stay like that, Christmas or not. See, he wasn’t big on the holiday to start with, not when the main theme’s family and together and,  _ugh_. All he can think of are those stupid Christmas mornings when he and his parents sat in the living room around their giant ass, expensive as shit tree and exchanged gifts—his parents always got him ridiculously luxurious things that any teenager would be stupid to say no to, and he usually forgot what he got them until they opened it.

But now that he’s—as far as the media, his parents, and the headstone in Beacon Hills Cemetery know—dead, he doesn’t need to fret about bowties or his Stefano Bemer’s or tacky Christmas photos. He barely needs to worry about showering which, okay, yeah, is kind of an issue, honestly. There’s only so many times you can wear the same boxers without cringing, especially when they weren’t your boxers to begin with. Can we talk about disgusting, because Jackson’s sure he can write a whole book after being dead for two months.

The thought of being seen like this repulses him, but that’s just another reason for opting out on existing today. He’s sure Derek’s going to spend his day moping around and Isaac’s probably crashing at McCall’s and Peter is … going to do whatever the fuck freaky undead werewolves—though he’s one to talk—do, so no interruptions, no one bugging him. Plus, he’s warm under his covers and more or less comfortable where he’s settled.  Life, for this split second, is kind of okay.

Then, the scar of a door creaks open and the smell of  _him_  fills the air. God-fucking-dammit.

“Hey, there you are, Jackson! Merry—”

“Fuck off, McCall. Can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?”

Jackson can practically hear McCall’s pout. “It’s three in the afternoon,” he says.

“All the more reason not to bother getting up,” Jackson dismisses.

McCall tugs away the blankets. “But, it’s Christmas!”

Jackson groans, ducks his head under his pillow, his ears ringing with his shout. “Fuckin’  _A_ , McCall. Go bother someone else!”

“But—”

“Go!”

The room goes blessedly silent once more … but, McCall doesn’t leave. His scent’s still coming in fresh under Jackson’s nose, even stronger than Jackson’s own not entirely pleasant smell, and that’s just another reason why he doesn’t want to be around anyone. He just wants to stay here, nice and curled up in his own humiliation and shame; he doesn’t need an audience, alright?

“Whoa, what? I’m not here to, you know, watch you fall apart,” McCall insists, inviting himself onto Jackson’s mattress. Jackson didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud. “Look, I know a lot of stuff has happened—”

Jackson snorts, pops his head out of the pillow. He sees McCall for the first time since he walked in, face flushed from the cold and a fucking dumb as shit Santa hat shoved on his head. Concern pulls McCall’s brows and it makes Jackson sick to his stomach.

“‘ _A lot of stuff_?’” Jackson all but hisses. “I became a giant lizard thing, I killed a shitload of people, I fucking  _died_ , and I—I—”  _I lost Lydia in the end_ , he thinks sullenly as his hands curl into fists. She loves him, she’s said so and he knows it wasn’t a lie, but—but she couldn’t deal with the whole werewolf thing, not that he could blame her, really. He’d probably choose being captain of the lacrosse team over what he has now, which is a whole lot of nothing.

He flinches away from the hand reaching for his shoulder. McCall’s face falls and he uses the hand to rub the back of his neck instead.

“Jackson …”

“Save your pity. In fact, stuff it up your ass and fuck off.”

McCall makes a noise. “I don’t—” He stops, probably tasting his own lie. “I just want to  _help_  you,” he amends. His hand twitches in his lap like he wants to try touching again, but he keeps it in check. “You’re my friend, Jackson. I can’t just—”

McCall pitches back from the finger jabbed his way.

“We’re not fricking friends, McCall! We never were and we never will be.”

Finally, there’s the simple whiff of anger. “Wha—I—You know what?  _Fine_. But, you owe me,” McCall accuses viciously. “You know, while everyone was talking about killing you, I was the only one willing to save you instead.” His heart flutters just the slightest, teensy, weensy bit, so truth, but not the whole truth.

Jackson’s not impressed. “And, what do you want, a trophy? Let me remind you that  _I died anyway_.”

McCall face stays twisted in anger for a moment more before just slipping away. His voice goes soft, painfully sincere, when he says, “I’m sorry, Jackson. Really, I’m—I’m  _sorry_. I just—just—” He falters, combs fingers through his hair, but the foreign heartbeat the pounds in Jackson’s head says everything that isn’t being said aloud. And, he doesn’t entirely sure he likes where this might be going.

Jackson pushes himself up by his elbows. “Scott, what—”

That heartbeat skips at the slip and Jackson meets McCall’s eyes, brown and wide and—and— Shit, there really is something there, something being said. It takes McCall’s shuddered breath and hastily wetted lip for Jackson to put a name to that _something_ , though.

“ _McCall_ —” Jackson tries again, a little choked. But, then, McCall’s pushing against him and though they exchange nothing more than a light brush of lips, Jackson’s body just kind of forgets how lungs work. He gasps and holds it and holds it and holds it until McCall’s hand that had crept in to cup his cheek disappears. There’s no pressure, not really, but they’re still  _touching_.

When the rather chaste kiss ends and McCall doesn’t pull away after a few moments, Jackson turns his head to the side, licks the sweet of eggnog off his lips. He rolls the taste in his mouth unconsciously, silently savoring it while trying so hard not to show it. That is, of course, until his stomach decides to rumble, loudly.

Jackson and McCall look up at each other, then after a beat McCall’s bursting into wild giggles. Their foreheads knock, and he only laughs harder. The fact that it takes everything Jackson has not to do more than smirk makes it worse, more ridiculous. Because that’s what this is:  _ridiculous_.  Ridiculous how they can go from fighting over heavy things like  _death_  and  _blame_  to kissing like a lovey-dovey, blushing virginal couple in a single breath. Ridiculous how this isn’t the first time it’s happened or the last.

 “Shut up,” Jackson hisses and shoves at Scott half-heartedly, equally surprised and grateful that the tension’s seemed to have drained away.  He knows that this is just crazy, that this shouldn’t be a thing that happens, but …

This almost feels right, being nose to nose with McCall.

“Um, you know, there’s going to be food at Stiles’ Christmas party,” McCall sing-songs, poking him playfully with that crooked little smile of his.

Jackson drops back into his pillow with a groan. “Are you kidding me?  _That’s_  why you’re here?”

“Well, yeah,” McCall says with a shrug. “And, I really want you to be there. Now a little bit more than before,” he admits with a blush Jackson can smell. “Maybe a lot more.”

He leans down and kisses his cheek and Jackson lets himself ease into it. “What’s in it for me?” he asks.

“Besides food? Um.” McCall buries his nose in Jackson’s hair, and Jackson cringes, unable to recount the last time he washed it. It could very well be last week or last month. But, then, the days all seem to blend together anyway. “We’re watching Christmas specials and stuff! So, that’s fun, I guess. And, it’s only the pack, so …” They cringe at the thought of their ex-girlfriends. “… Yeah. Oh! And, eggnog!  _Spiked_  eggnog, probably. You like eggnog, right?”

Jackson kind of loves the stuff. A lot. A lot, a lot. “Ugh,  _no_ ,” he says shortly.

Thankfully not acknowledging the blatant lie, McCall sprawls beside him, his legs stretching in front of Jackson’s face and his head resting on his spine. It takes a moment, then finally, “There’ll be mistletoe there,” he breathes into Jackson’s shirt, flooding him with warmth. “We can, uh, hook one up over the couch and just make out all night.”

Okay, that? That’s dumb. That’s dumb and stupidly sweet and, ugh, Jackson’s grinning so hard it  _hurts_. He doesn’t want to admit that that’s what makes him cave, so he mumbles, “Throw in a shower and clean clothes, and I’ll go. Deal?

McCall draws Jackson’s shirt down and kisses his tailbone.

“Deal.”


End file.
